


Nothing Left To Prove

by BrosleCub12



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Parenthood, Post-Season/Series 04, lovely Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 12:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16095764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: John is tired.





	Nothing Left To Prove

**Author's Note:**

> For various reasons, I'm actually very proud of this. Short but sweet and hopefully enough to comfort. As per, I do not own Sherlock.

John is tired.

It soaks off him in waves, tide after tide of exhaustion, crashing into furniture and exuding soft curses like the whisper of foam as it retreats. Water saltier than tears, slipping upwards to cover footprints left in the sand, over and over, the endless trudge and tread.

John is _so_ tired.

Sherlock watches him from his spot on the sofa, hands clasped over his chest, one eye squinting, watching his friend move around. He’d offered to help but John had shooed him away; he’s Rosie’s parent, her Dad, he’ll sort it all out. He believes he neglected her enough, after Mary died; after he hit Sherlock; after the whole Eurus business. He’ll do it alone; take care of her alone.

Except he’s _not_ alone, because he finally admitted defeat and brought two suitcases, three bags and his baby back to Baker Street. He doesn’t have to be alone at all, but he’s stubborn and stupid and trying to make up for lost time and desperate to prove a point and he’s _John._ It doesn’t matter that he was in no fit state to be a father to _anyone_ after Mary’s death; doesn’t matter that he’s tried and tried and keeps trying. He blames himself for lost time.

He watches John try and John, the absolute _idiot,_ won’t let him help.

John finally struggles back downstairs after Rosie settles, her relentless crying that has filled the house their music for the night; she’s still a little unsettled by it all, still finding it a bit strange, this house she grew out of being used to with its two huge chairs, its small kitchen and bat collection on the mantlepiece, but John is _trying_ and that’s all he can do. He withers in the door to the lounge looking like a puppet who is held up by one string and one string alone – one last snip and he’ll fall to his knees. He doesn’t even look angry, he just looks defeated.

‘Come here.’ Sherlock’s voice is soft, even to his own ears; commanding. Concerned, with an order. Concerned with keeping _John_ in order.

John blinks his way and then, miraculously for someone who hates doing as he’s told – does as he’s told. Shuffles over to the sofa and sits down on the edge, recognising that Sherlock will make no movement to sit up, not yet. Just needs to rest, is just past the point of argument. Not near the point of no return, no – Sherlock will not let that happen. He will not let John break.

He reaches out, places a hand to John’s back, a light palm and just keeps it there for a moment and John collapses into his own hands, leans forwards onto his knees, groans into his elbows. His shoulders shake underneath Sherlock’s fingers.

‘I can’t do this.’ He shakes his head, over and over. ‘I can’t – I can’t do it, Sherlock, I can’t, I can’t.’

‘Ssssh,’ Sherlock does sit up, then, leans forward, puts an arm around him and the other one on the shoulder closest to him – John’s scarred shoulder, the one that took the bullet nine years ago, the bullet that changed the course of John’s expectations, his life and led them to here. ‘Ssssh, John. It’s alright. Everything’s alright.’

John shakes his head, his voice thick with the onslaught of tears. ‘I can’t – she doesn’t deserve this, Sherlock, she doesn’t. I can’t be Mum _and_ Dad to her, I can’t – ‘

‘Of course not,’ Sherlock cuts it off at the knees. ‘Of _course_ you can’t be, you can only be yourself. Be her father, John, nothing more.’ All children who lose one parent need the other, after all and that is exactly what John is doing. That’s all he _can_ do.

‘I’m not a good Dad,’ John breaks then, positively wails; he’s keeping his eyes averted, but the tears are rolling thickly, bottled up for far too long. Sherlock wishes he would look at him. ‘I’m not, Sherlock, I can’t – what if I _do_ something? What if I hurt her?’

Sherlock resists the urge to scoff at such a ridiculous notion. ‘Have you hurt her?’ John shakes his head vigorously; Sherlock chuffs softly.

‘No. So therefore, you won’t. She may fall over sometime of her own accord, she may need a plaster or two but she’s a child, John, that’s simply what children do. Archie fell off the edge of his father’s driveway just the other week and got an enormous graze for his troubles. He showed it to me, actually, he’s very proud of it.

‘Hm.’ John lowers his head, wipes his eyes with his sleeve, blows his nose. Sherlock rubs his back, soothing.

‘I’m scared,’ John says finally, into the silence, his voice like falling pebbles and Sherlock feels the weight of his shame as he says it because it’s one of the bravest things that John’s ever admitted to, ‘that one day I’ll – that the crying, the noise – it’ll all get too much and I’ll – I’ll _do_ something. Dads in the army, they – I’ve heard stories, Sherlock. They come back and they – their wives made them leave the house because they were a danger to the children. Too many flashbacks and – but I don’t even have that excuse, do I?’ he adds, despairing and he does look around now, to Sherlock and his face is crumpled, completely destroyed. ‘Because I’m addicted, aren’t I? I’ll do something and I’ll – I’ll hurt her.’

Into the frantic silence that follows, Sherlock cocks his head.

‘No,’ he says it as soft as a blanket, shaking his head. ‘No, John. You won’t. You won’t,’ he reiterates at John’s disbelieving expression, even under the sheet of tears; the tight jaw, the slight, sudden impatience in his face, his conviction that Sherlock needs to be corrected in this.

‘I hurt _you,’_ he rejoins roughly, ‘I hurt Mary – I didn’t mean to, but I disrespected her, Sherlock, I _lied_ to her, just because I could. Now you _know_ what I’ve done, Sherlock – who’s to say I won’t make it a hat-trick, eh?’

‘Me,’ Sherlock says promptly, unfazed, continuing to rub circles into his back, ‘and yes, I _do_ know, and I also know you, so please don’t insult my intelligence by presuming I’m wrong, Doctor.’

John chuckles with no humour. Sherlock places a gentle hand to his crown, runs his hands through fine hair, more silver-blonde than fair now. John closes his eyes to it, unresisting, and Sherlock does it again, lets a hum fall from his mouth, concentrated and tuneful from years of the violin. From similar days when he was in similar straits and Mycroft was there to calm him in much the same fashion, soothing Sherlock’s mind, letting his fingers trail through his curls, reaching out to his little brother, stories of the North wind be damned.

He does it several time and John’s head lolls; he falls into the touch, leans into Sherlock, sniffling, until his head is completely resting on his shoulder. Sherlock does the only thing he can do and wraps his arms around him, linking them together, holding John close.

‘Please don’t let me hurt her,’ John begs and Sherlock smiles into his hair. As if John, who beat him but then broke down his hospital door with a fire-extinguisher and pulled Culverton Smith away from him; who flirtatiously texted a stranger but was strong enough to resist taking it further (and this was Eurus they were talking about, so that’s really saying something); who couldn’t take care of Rosie himself for a while but ensured that someone else could; who could have killed David the Governer at Sherrinford, had the experience and the background to do it, but didn’t – would _ever_ harm a hair on his daughter’s head.

He tells John all this, murmurs every word into his hair, breath touching the silvery strands, tells him what he knows to be true, listens to the sound of those sobs start to dissipate with every tale Sherlock retells – all things that John never put in his blog, but that Sherlock kept secure in his mind-palace. Reminds him of the ups with the downs. Expresses the simple fact that John is human and a good one.

‘You are _not_ going to hurt her,’ he concludes in a soft whisper, ignoring the thick fog that blurs his vision. He hates seeing John like this. ‘She is fed and changed and washed and asleep. She’s safe. And you did all that by yourself, John, just today, just like you did yesterday. And I’ll be there to help you tomorrow.’

There’s a very heavy silence; John has all but collapsed against him, resting against Sherlock’s chest – he’s stopped crying somewhere along the way, but he is, clearly, thinking very hard. Finally, a hand comes up to Sherlock’s arm and squeezes the muscle, rubs it feebly and he’s glancing up at Sherlock, eyes open, seeking, almost pleading.

‘Please,’ he tries and it’s practically soundless, so he clears his throat, tries again. ‘Please would you – ‘

‘Yes,’ Sherlock doesn’t let him finish; John never has to ask, for _anything._ ‘Yes, John. I’ll help you.’ He smiles gently down at him, cups one side of his head. ‘I’m here.’

A quick dash of a smile; John’s face is damp with tears and mucus, worn beyond belief and Sherlock falls back on the habit of a lifetime and withdraws a clean hanky from his dressing gown, uses it to gently wipe his friend’s cheeks. John blinks, letting him, his suddenly perturbed expression a relief, a familiarity. More like the John Watson he knows.

‘You…keep a hanky in your pyjamas?’ he asks under Sherlock's ministrations, apparently startled.

‘Needs must,’ Sherlock says primly and John _does_ laugh then, a bark of a thing, almost startled at the fact that he can laugh at all, and quickly takes the hanky with a murmur of thanks and dries his own eyes, finished up. He coughs out, meeting Sherlock’s eyes – Sherlock spots the split-second in which he clearly thinks _oh, what the hell_ and then leans forward and back into him, his own arms rather shyly wrapping around Sherlock’s waist as he rests.

‘You’re actually very good at giving hugs,’ he comments after a while, sounding surprised and Sherlock can’t help but feel pleased at such an assessment. He hasn’t really had a lot of practice in his time.

Perhaps, he reflects, that was Molly and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, all having a good effect on him. Perhaps it was Mary – Mary who invited more contact into their lives, who hugged Sherlock as often as she seemed to kiss John, always treating him as something of a brother. Always protective of him, in her own way; shooting him, but also taking a shot _for_ him. Only the three of them were ever allowed to put each other through hell – nobody else.  

This, though. This isn’t hell. This is John, calm against Sherlock’s heart, and breathing out. This is Baker Street and toys on the floor and washing-up that needs to be done and a father who needs sleep.

Almost on cue, the sound of fresh crying starts up from above and John sighs, a gentle whisper, resigned.

‘Let _me_ go,’ Sherlock murmurs and gently uncurls John from him, lets him take his place on the sofa, puts the cushion under his head. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

He waves away the guilty expression on John’s face, the token protest scrambling itself from John’s mouth and then turns on his heel.

‘It’s alright, Watson, I’m coming,’ he calls as he heads up the stairs to tend to his caterwauling goddaughter, whose distress, as it turns out, is due to little more than being unable to find her favourite stuffed bee which had fallen through the bars. Sherlock returns it to her promptly and strokes her head, murmurs to her in soft tones as she chews on it, her eyes, fixed on him with apparent interest, glinting in the dim of the room, reflected only by the hallway and the night light.

‘If you need a cuddle, let me know,’ he tells her. ‘It seems I’m very good at them.’

She mumbles and holds her bee close and drifts off in a haze of little grizzles and blanket-kicking and then there is silence once more. Sherlock goes back downstairs to John, who smiles at him sleepily from the sofa, curled up and relieved and Sherlock sits beside him, reads quietly for a while, lets John rest. 

‘Thankyou,’ John croaks eventually and puts a hand out, clumsily touches his shoulder and Sherlock reaches up with his own hand, holds it to John's momentarily, makes a soft, encouraging noise in return as he watches his friend drift off.

For now, _this_ is the case; this is Sherlock and John and Rosie, ensconced and safely together in 221B. This is a silence that won’t last, that will be punctuated later by more tears, more feedings, more necessities – but this is Sherlock being a godfather, this is John being a parent and this is them, leaning on one another. This is Rosie, who, in her own way, is helping; helping Sherlock and John navigate their way back to shore from where Moriarty and Magnussen and Ms. Norbury and Eurus hurled them into deep waters; side-by-side, they’re led by the sticky hands of a child, barely a year old, who needs them.

It is what it is, and it’s going to be alright.


End file.
